


be strong

by Crimson_Voltaire



Series: your voice inside my head [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 14:32:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11038134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: Graves struggles with always being the one people come to. Queenie helps.For bluebeholder, who originally asked for Queenie/Graves fluff where she helps him out using legilimency.





	be strong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebeholder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/gifts).



> In which there is fluff, Graves trying to run away and cooking of spaghetti. I struggled with this one. 
> 
> [It is also the first and probably last time I will ever write Newtina, and they are only mentioned in passing.]
> 
> As always, not beta read.

_How are you so strong?_

Queenie stills, watching the spaghetti noodles soften in the bubbling, frothing pot. The sound of water boiling is loud in the sudden silence, a filler for the void left by the silent question. Inhaling a shaky breath, suddenly feeling very off-kilter, Queenie spins on one heel to face him.

Percival sits at the dining table in nothing but his dark trousers and fine shirt, with the sleeves hiked up and the first few buttons undone. His hair is loose and glossy in the soft light of the electric lamp.

[It's just them tonight, Newt and Tina are on a _date_.]

"I'm sorry?" Queenie asks, and her voice sounds as shaken as she feels.

Percival plays at being calm, but there's a hidden tension in his shoulders, a vulnerability in those dark eyes that makes Queenie both sad and honoured to bear witness to it.

_How... How do you do it? You're so strong. _

His voice is so quiet in her head, like he's talking to her through a wall. The last vestiges of his occlumency still tinge his thoughts a strange shade of murky, like Queenie is trying to peer into a lake and see the bottom. It's amazing, though, that Queenie can hear his thoughts at all. She knows how much strength it takes for him to let the barriers down, how much this must mean to him.

"Oh, honey," she whispers, abandoning the pot and dinner to cross the short expanse of space and pull up a chair beside him.

Queenie takes both of his hands in hers; they're big and rough against her soft skin, sure fingers and wide palms, callouses and a few scars here and there. Queenie traces these with her thumbs, holding them tight when he shudders beneath her touch.

"In all truth, Perry, I ain't that strong."

Percival's eyes flash, his body tensing, muscles coiling as if he's preparing for an argument. Queenie shakes her head and he stills, brain going blank. It's like watching a bustling train station filter out in seconds. When Percival watches her curls bounce, watches the frown form on her face, his mind goes completely silent and still.

"I ain't done yet," Queenie scolds gently, "What I was saying was, that I ain't that strong, not all the time. Sure, if I have to be, but I don't always want to be, y'know? It gets awful tiring."

She shrugs.

"Besides, I got Teenie, and Newt and you. I know you all got my back if I need you, I don't have to handle it all by myself or always be the strong one."

Queenie squeezes his hands, gently, comfortingly. Percival's eyes flicker to their joined hands and then up to Queenie's own. They're liquid and as black as fresh brewed coffee, brimming with some sort of uncertainty. In the yellow light, he looks both very young and very old, caught between the exterior he shows the world and the softer side Queenie has the pleasure of knowing and loving.

"I..." Percival falters, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a minute, "I'm tired..."

 _I'm tired of pretending it doesn't get to me sometimes. I'm tired of being the one everyone comes to_.

'I don't want to be strong' isn't what he says, but it's strongly implied.

Queenie sucks in a breath. Percival opens his eyes again and they bypass Queenie's face to fall to the table. Embarrassment abruptly spreads across his features. Queenie's brain is momentarily overwhelmed with his desire to flee and so she lets go of him Percival pulls his hands from hers, his chair scraping loudly as he pushes back and makes to stand.

"This was a mistake," he mutters quickly, eyes anywhere but hers, "I apologize, I shouldn't -"

Queenie grabs his arm without thinking, yanking him back down into his seat and crying out, "No, Per, don't go!"

Percival stares at her hand on his arm, eyes wide and round and shocked. She can feel how his pulse has quickened underneath his skin when she grabbed him. Guilt floods through her, but Queenie forces it down.

She takes a deep, steadying breath and says, "Please, don't run away. Talk to me. This is botherin' you, hon."

It is silent for a beat, and then two. Graves worries the inside of his cheek, thoughts flickering like channels on the wireless, between scolding himself for being an idiot and hating himself for being weak in the first place.

"Oh _honey_ ," Queenie repeats.

He hurts so badly sometimes and all she wants to do is help. She surges forward to embrace him. Percival spooks at the quick movement, yelping before Queenie wraps her arms around him and pulls him into her, until his face is against her neck and her fingers tangle in the downy black of his hair. Percival hooks both his forearms around her hips, hands splayed against her back, clutching at her dress. She can feel the warmth of his skin even through her clothes. He shudders again, nuzzling his face into Queenie's shoulder.

"It's alright," Queenie murmurs, kissing his hair, "It's alright, hon. You ain't an idiot and you don't got to be strong all the time. You got me and Teenie and Newt and Credence. You got your Aurors too. You don't have to pretend you're fine."

His breathing hitches. Queenie can't tell if he's crying. She just holds him closer, until there's not a molecule of space between them.

"You don't gotta be strong, we'll be here for you. I promise. I promise."

They exist in silence for a moment, one being with two heartbeats, breathing in tandem. It's nice, to be this close to him, to offer Percival comfort. He so often pretends he doesn't need it, pretends he doesn't want it. So Queenie enjoys being able to shower him with love.

She caresses his hair and leaves feather light kisses on his pale forehead until Percival's voice disturbs her from her thoughts. It's accompanied by the strange sense that something is burning, somewhere.

"Queenie... The pasta."

Queenie immediately releases him, spinning to see the pot bubbling over and hot water dribbling onto the floor. The entire thing is hissing angrily and steaming (smoking?).

"Oh! Shoot!"

She leaps forward, turning down the stove and cleaning up the mess with a flick of her wand. It's easy enough to fix, for the most part, but the noodles have melted to the bottom of the pot and there aren't any more in the pasta jar.

"Damn it," Queenie growls, poking at the sticky mess with her wooden spoon.

Behind her, Percival apparently finds all of this incredibly funny because he bursts out laughing. When she looks, he's clutching the table and burying his face in his forearm. His shoulders shudder and high pitched gales of laughter fill the entire apartment. Queenie just glares, magicking the ruined spaghetti off the bottom of her pot.

"Well, we ain't having spaghetti, I'll tell you that much," she grumbles, but it's more to herself than Percival. He's still giggling like a schoolboy.

Queenie turns back to the stove, quickly putting everything away. Then she goes on a search around the pantry, looking for something else to make. There isn't much, she hasn't done groceries in a few days. Queenie bites her lip and looks at Percival again. He's sobered a little, sitting up now.

"Do you want to go out? My treat, as a thank you," he offers, wiping the tears from his eyes.

Queenie raises a fine golden brow, staring down her nose at him for a moment.

"A thank you for what? The pep talk or providing entertainment?"

There's no heat in her voice so Percival grins at her, shrugging.

"Both, I haven't laughed that hard in a long time."

Queenie snorts and shakes her head, but she can't wipe the smile off her face. Percival begins to laugh again.

They do end up going out. It's mild, for February, just chilly enough for snow, but the air lacks the distinctive bitter bite of a wicked winter. Tonight the city is dark and still, snowflakes dancing waltzes around Queenie and Graves as they stroll towards the restaurant.

Queenie tilts her head back, sticking out her tongue to catch a snowflake. It is cool and perfect for a moment before it melts away. Percival's laugh rumbles in his chest, and when Queenie looks at him, his gaze burns with affection. She grins, mirroring the smile tugging at his lips before offering her hand. Graves instead surprises her by wrapping an arm around her waist and drawing her close. He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth.

Then they start off again, down the quiet lane, with snowflakes falling and streetlights guiding the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave any thoughts you have or come scream at me on Tumblr. I reside at luminis-infinite@tumblr.com. I don't bite, promise.


End file.
